


George Weasley's Insomnia

by olivemartini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comfort, Death, Firewhiskey, Fluff, Grief, Hurt, Insomnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 22:38:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4076440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivemartini/pseuds/olivemartini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is just George dealing with not being able to sleep after the war, and Verity offering some comfort</p>
            </blockquote>





	George Weasley's Insomnia

Sleep had been hard to come by recently. Whenever he tried to pinpoint the reason, he was never able to figure out exactly why. Maybe it was because whenever he tried to fall asleep to the quiet murmur of Diagon Alley, he realized that with his one ear, he could no longer hear them. Maybe it was the fact that as he faced the long night ahead, he became acutely aware of the fact that there was only one heart beat in the room, one pair of lungs breathing in and out. Maybe it was the phantom pains that would suddenly wrack his body, like the injuries Fred had sustained before his death were now wreaking havoc on George's body. It was almost certainly because of the war. The sleepless nights had to have something to do with the way he would close his eyes, only to have some horrible memory of a battle flood his body with adrenaline. If by some miracle he did manage to fall asleep, he would wake up screaming, having been visited by Death Eaters sending curses toward him, Hogwarts going up in smoke, or Fred's face staring up at him from underneath the rubble. He wasn't sure what was worse- the nightmares or the insomnia.  
Last night had been of the latter. He didn't think it was possible to become more pathetic than he already was, but he continued to prove himself wrong. His normally pale skin had become even paler, purple rings around his eyes made him resemble a raccoon, and more than a few times he's walked down to the shop still wearing his pajamas on. He's lost count of the number of times Verity has walked into the storage room only to find him asleep.  
A life time ago (or three months) he would have thought drinking fire whiskey at eight in the morning, while he was working, was unacceptable. That was a time when he would have been greeting the customers with a smile, grateful for each one of them, not hiding in the back room and tinkering with products. If Fred knew, he'd be rolling over in his grave.   
He was in the back room, working his way through the bottle of fire whiskey, when Verity found him. "Mr. Weasley." She had been surprised to see him, almost dropping the boxes she was carrying, and pulled herself back into her professional mask. But a second later, maybe remembering that whatever was between them wasn't exactly professional anymore, she shook her head and sighed. "George. What are you doing?"  
"Working on a new product. Obviously." It was a feeble joke, but he did not have the heart to try to think up a new one. Fred always made the jokes, anyways.   
"If you're going to spend the day drinking yourself to an early grave, you might as well go do it up in your flat." Verity, who had decided long ago that she was done walking on egg shells around him, yanked the bottle from his hand.  
"Fred didn't drink." His words were slurred so bad George wasn't even sure she could understand him. "Yet there he is, rotting away in his early grave, as you so eloquently put it. Why shouldn't I enjoy life on his behalf?"  
He could see the faint blush rise in her cheeks, see the way her courage faltered. Even as the sympathy gathered in her eyes, the easy familiarity that had been built up between them started to crumble. For a moment, her hand ran through his hair, a surprisingly comforting gesture that he hadn't been expecting. "I didn't know Fred very well. Not like I know you. But I've sat through enough of your drunken ramblings to know that dead or alive, Red would still be ashamed of you. And rightfully so."  
Gently, she set the bottle back by his hand, as if wondering if she had been too harsh. Then, with a tone that contradicted her earlier demeanor, she told him to go upstairs. "Go to bed, George. You'll feel better when you wake up."   
George could only watch as she left the room, bright purple robes trailing behind her. He had the sense that he was driving away the one person outside of his family that was still trying to help him. Suddenly, he noticed that there was something very depressing at drinking alone in the middle of a dark storage room, and for a brief moment, he hated her for pointing it out to him.

 

Fifteen hours later, he made his way down the stairs to his shop. He had slept twelve hours, feeling better than he had in the past two years. He wasn't even hung over, and except for the acidic taste in his mouth, he wouldn't have known he had been drinking at all. For once, he was willing to get some work done, to work on some products. But when he saw Verity in the middle of the store, dancing to the beat of the Celestial Warbeck song as she restocked the shelves, all the good intentions disappeared. "Verity."   
She jumped, and this time, the boxes she was carrying really did fall out of her arms. "George. Merlin, you scared me. How long have you been standing there?"  
"I owe you an apology." George forced those words out, then stared at her blankly. The words had dried up in his throat, along with his courage. "I've been acting very irresponsibly lately."  
She gave a derisive snort. "You think so?"  
"It's not the same anymore." The words, supposed to be an apology, were spoken in a dull monotone. The smile slid off her face as she realized where this conversation as heading. "You can feel it, can't you? The way the people we knew from Hogwarts automatically look for Fred? The way the light he used to bring to the room, had people smiling. The way he made things work, had a flair for business."  
"George." Somehow, amazingly, she had taken his hand, her thumb running over his knuckles. He thought he'd be okay, if she kept doing that. "Don't you get it? They're looking for you, because you're hiding away from them, and then they remember you won't come see them. You used to make people smile, but you lost your inner light. Things here aren't going good. It's like you don't want them too."  
"Maybe I don't!" He walked away from her, realizing for the first time that maybe he didn't. "Would you? Everything in here reminds me of Fred. Everything. This was our dream, and he's not here to share it."  
"But this was your dream too!" Verity was becoming frustrated, he could tell. "Yours, George! Why wouldn't you want to hang onto that part of the dream you had? You made it happen! He died, but you didn't."  
"I wish I did, sometimes." The words fell between them.  
"I know." Verity blinked a few times before talking again. "I wish you didn't think like that."  
"It's just hard. He's everything. My other half. It's like someone just punched holes in me, and I don't know where they are, so I can't patch them up."   
"Then let me find them." She smiled then, and took hold of his hand once more. "Let me fix you."

 

That night, he told her everything. How Fred died. How he died laughing. How George, though knowing they could live or die, mistakenly assumed they would live or die together. How bad it hurt, those few weeks after, how he tried to numb the grief during the day with cigarettes and firewhiskey. How grateful he was she was always there to help him out of whatever hole he digs himself. How long the nights were, how he couldn't sleep, how disturbing the nightmares are.   
The next night, she didn't leave. Not the next either. She just sat by him, and slowly, he found it easier to sleep. It was easier, when he thought about the nightmares he might have to face, knowing that she would be there beside him when he woke up. There were other, happier things to focus on before he fell asleep. And for that, he was grateful.


End file.
